To
endure the steep descent — both literal and economic — that Lebanon has faced
since October 2019,
I chose to become a tourist in my own country rather than a
fully engaged citizen.
Not out of apathy, but as a conscious act of survival.
To wander instead of resist.
To observe without despair.
To hold a tender distance between myself and the unraveling.
Intrigued,
I began sketching them — Then I met their drivers — craftsmen of survival,
navigating broken roads with laughter and grit. Eventually I started shaping
their forms in clay.
Through this process, the tuktuk became more than a vehicle: it became a symbol
of movement, adaptation, and the quiet persistence of everyday life in Lebanon.
Each day, during my commute from our village in the Chouf mountains to my workshop, I began noticing the sudden presence of tuktuks — these three-wheeled vehicles weaving through the landscape. Red, yellow, black, white, blue, green, even pinkish ones. Some idle at street corners, waiting for passengers; others speeding up and down the mountain roads with a sense of purpose and stubborn hope.
